"stickiness" poems
We know you, and your little dark colors too. A picture book in your purse penned in mustaches on the full faces of your fare. We call you from bed, 8 o' clock in the morning, dog-light you slow wander the Peruvian darkness making jellyfish tentacles with your hands while you feel your way through Salem. We're colder than night and we wake thrice the bits of your day gig. You collapse in a green field of dandelion where thrushes drown you in Brown. We gorge ourselves on mango slivers, pineapple yolks, a half of grapefruit. We know you are close to your end.
On the tops of the cities you call to your lycan friends, the half-sick and muted bray allures them to you, from Bratislava and Mimon, the thoroughfare through the suq. We wait. The foregone untold, the beep beep jug jug swoop sound of the nightingale, in all her dun glory, we wait. Then, as if descending through the moor-lounging silver smoke, the cool stickiness to your fingertips; the fog.
We are there when the blue-less and smoky screen surrounds you, when you shank the auburn Scot hair of the sly fox that stalks, say, a cigarette from your lips. When you take the corners swiftly, gadding the streets. The prize king of vulpicide. You rub its matte fur against your bristly gray beard. And while you lay in your lumps of twelve carat flesh you bleat and you nag. One day you will never come home.
May 2, 2014
May 2, 2014 at 3:14 PM UTC
The swallow of summer, she toils all the summer,
A blue-dark knot of glittering voltage,
A whiplash swimmer, a fish of the air.
But the serpent of cars that crawls through the dust
In shimmering exhaust
Searching to slake
Its fever in ocean
Will play and be idle or else it will bust.
The swallow of summer, the barbed harpoon,
She flings from the furnace, a rainbow of purples,
Dips her glow in the pond and is perfect.
But the serpent of cars that collapsed on the beach
Disgorges its organs
A scamper of colours
Which roll like tomatoes
Nude as tomatoes
With sand in their creases
To cringe in the sparkle of rollers and screech.
The swallow of summer, the seamstress of summer,
She scissors the blue into shapes and she sews it,
She draws a long thread and she knots it at the corners.
But the holiday people
Are laid out like wounded
Flat as in ovens
Roasting and basting
With faces of torment as space burns them blue
Their heads are transistors
Their teeth grit on sand grains
Their lost kids are squalling
While man-eating flies
Jab electric shock needles but what can they do?
They can climb in their cars with raw bodies, raw faces
And start up the serpent
And headache it homeward
A car full of squabbles
And sobbing and stickiness
With sand in their crannies
Inhaling petroleum
That pours from the foxgloves
While the evening swallow
The swallow of summer, cartwheeling through crimson,
Touches the honey-slow river and turning
Returns to the hand stretched from under the eaves -
A boomerang of rejoicing shadow.
4.3k
peeling off labels is like peeling off skin of a 3rd degree sunburn
i hate how it looks
and it's gonna hurt like hell
but i don't want the evidence there
why do i even care so much?
dear society
rip
i am not "anorexic"
tear
i have metabolism issues
the stickiness gums up
i didn't ask for this
shred
i'm not "antisocial"
strip
but i like being alone
stab
i'm not teen angst
hack
i'm growing up
stop telling me
i have problems
scratch
i know i have problems
i'm not canned vegetables
why do you need to know my contents?
pick
i'm not yours to scrutinize
stop staring at my body
stop trying to get into my head
stop slapping **** on me
and expecting me to fit into the little labeled box
i'm not
your labels
Dec 22, 2014
Dec 22, 2014 at 7:29 PM UTC
i must be some sort of permanently exhausted pigeon;
claws clinging to the telephone wire
drearily blinking my way through
the morning meeting of the aerial acrobatic society.
i am a seagull swarmed
amongst the chirpy conjecture
of these early birds;
and my soul caws an honesty,
a wail, a howl, the truth.
i am a tainted swan
grittily paddling myself through the marsh
we call this world,
a lone observer of the acrobats,
the stickiness of my feet keeping me
flightless.
and you are a swallow;
redbull wings migrate you to warmer climates.
you hear the seagulls
but listen to the pigeons.
you notice the swan
but her murky shallows are too icy
for your liking.
and you are a chicken;
blind beyond your own free-range vicinity.
you catch the pigeons as jet planes,
and the seagull's whisper is alien.
you don't know miss swan.
Nov 24, 2016
Nov 24, 2016 at 8:02 AM UTC
She's absolutely delicious,
sweet like a nectarine,
light fuzz covers her
in all the right places.
I love the way she gushes,
so juicy like a ripe peach,
flowing in abundance,
heavenly-stickiness,
her face looking stellar.
She's very kind
& super fine,
teaches me
how to love her,
tasty like a cobbler,
I gobble her up
every chance I get,
it drives me
out of my mind.
She's definitly not a pet, but
rather a bowl of succulent fruit,
******* the size of peaches
with stout lovely-nipples,
as hard as the pits.
I can't wait
to jam it with her,
I want to make some
marmalade
of my own.
Jan 28, 2014
Jan 28, 2014 at 8:59 PM UTC
Today is
Trash Collection Day
on my avenue
and the raccoons
and feral cats
and unleashed dogs
and diverse rodents
are rejoicing.
It’s a jamboree
of indiscriminate
gluttony and
the lip smacking
stickiness
of furry jowls
Sep 30, 2012
Sep 30, 2012 at 9:03 AM UTC
All she wants
Is for her body to be wanted
Screaming, clutching, *******
Longing for the childhood she left behind
Longing for the father that left her childhood
Longing for the sweet stickiness
Longing to be wanted
She's finished with work
Pleasure is her job
And the man she pleases on screen
Tells her that her hard, painful effort
Was second rate
Was not pleasurable
Was not worth it
She closes her bedroom door
Knowing nothing else but pleasure anymore
Pleasure now means pain for her
She's caught in a trap
She's scared and alone
She's seeing the consequences of her actions
She cries out to the night
But only the sun and another day of work answer
Jan 3, 2014
Jan 3, 2014 at 1:15 AM UTC
She would always compare love
to a habit,
something one eventually gets
used to. I don’t plan on giving away
pieces of myself for the sake of
feeding my habit,
whatever that may be. But I can also see
how she could be right.
Dripping walls speak out – guarding a
possibility.
They may not be bothered until feeble
smokescreens arrive, unattended.
Skin won’t crawl and lanterns will not quake.
The stickiness of rain settles into all that has been
made at
biweekly intervals. Oh science! dearly fleeing
from my good luck, you left a compensation
for the deadbeat tattered robe. (An applied luxury.)
Backwards lashes of dancers in the sea.
Their grandparents' history to be taken with a grain of salt.
Some spinning in the misty moss growth
ignites the yellow from the evergreen’s pollen
seed.
It stops every other season when we take
and rub it on our clothes.
It’s not that sad, there’s no offense.
It’s something we've gotten used to.
Aug 23, 2012
Aug 23, 2012 at 2:37 AM UTC
I love the sound
of fresh papers
as they come
crinkling and
crackling out of
the package,
the aroma
of citrus and earth,
sweet smelling grass,
the sensation
of stickiness,
dulled spikes
of fresh stems,
the sight
of red orange flames
lapping up
crisp white paper,
of translucent
gray smoke
whisping
out of the small
opening of a pipe's mouthpiece,
the taste
of wisdom, sage, and ash,
vaporizing my insides,
filling my lungs
and brain
full of poetic fumes;
I love to break
you
down,
roll you up,
set you ablaze,
and
inhale
you,
vaporizing my insides,
filling my heart
and brain
full of poetic fumes.
I love to
get
high
off you;
I don't want
to
ever
get
clean.
Let's
roll
another.
Jul 25, 2014
Jul 25, 2014 at 5:17 PM UTC
My wife always nags me.
This seems to be a problem with most women I marry.
Or most women in general.
They all nag me.
I'm laid back.
Or as my past wives say,
"lazy".
Sure, you could say that,
but I prefer the term,
laid back.
Anyway,
so my wife is always nagging me.
"Do the dishes" she says.
"Do the laundry" she says.
"Vacuum the house" she says.
Eventually, I would do it.
But the nagging got worse.
"Fix the squeaky front door" she says.
"Clean out the gutters" she says.
"Sort the trash from the recyclables" she says.
Eventually, I couldn't take it anymore.
I had enough.
So I took my wife,
and threw her in a vat of acid.
I watched as her skin slowly melted off her body,
like ice cream melting on an ice cream cone,
minus the stickiness.
I watched her hair dry up,
and disintegrate into nothing.
Her fingernails slowly fell off,
and her eyes began to slip out of her head,
as she let out a final scream.
She looked just as beautiful as she did the first day I met her.
My eyes feasted on the greatness before them,
although it does get kind of boring after the fourth time.
Nonetheless, I still enjoyed it.
There's nothing like throwing your half asleep wife in a vat of acid on a cold Sunday morning.
Apr 3, 2012
Apr 3, 2012 at 9:56 PM UTC
My mind buzzing in a kaleidoscope of hexagonal memories.
I am reminded of when I was a child
My mother and I would drive for a hour deep into the
Evergreen woods to a small cabin,
Where an old man lived.
He harvested honey.
The beekeeper man.
I never went inside with her when she would go to buy
A jar.
The car riding idle, shaking while I wait,
I hear the hum of a thousand bees in the distance.
I imagine the hexagonal honeycomb
Home to hundreds of bees
All working simultaneously to bring me
But a single drop of paradise.
When my mother returned to the car she would hand me a Ball mason jar
Full of the stickiness of my desires.
The label slightly gluey from the beekeeper’s hands closing the jar.
I can feel the warmness of the honey seeping onto my lap.
The inkiness of honey dripping
Down my wrist.
Sweet, savory,
The flavor thick in my mouth
Each drop of amber seeping into each
Taste bud.
I always noticed the picture of this face,
An older man smiling.
A full grey beard and mustache.
There on the label he became alive to me,
A picture of the bee keeper’s head attached to the body of a bee.
Feb 2, 2015
Feb 2, 2015 at 1:20 PM UTC
I used to believe in the magic of eyelashes.
I would find one on my cheek
After rubbing my eyes "good morning."
I stared it down from my finger
As the words to make the wish
Would formulate in my mind,
Watching the long, thin hair
Like the slits of my mother's mistrustful eyes
When her cherry-colored face
Shakes with vigor opposite
My father, gaunt.
The wind gathered strength
Inside of me,
The eyelash would float away -
A black dandelion.
How many eyelashes does it take
To stop the stickiness
Rolling toward my chin?
One day I may find my eyes bare
With no way
To stop the blotches of ink from smudging
On the paper that I write on.
But that's if I still believed in the magic of eyelashes.
Dec 27, 2013
Dec 27, 2013 at 3:49 PM UTC
Sand dust paper memory,
Magnet promises that loose
Their stickiness.
Eyes so deep and empty
Like lonely water wells.
This is the man that holds
An umbrella over his head,
Even if it's not raining,
And just stands and stares
Out over the horizon sea.
Mar 11, 2014
Mar 11, 2014 at 3:40 PM UTC
Spec-tac-ular
There may be times when you contemplate & debate...
&feel; as insignificant as a grain of sand in the middle of the desert
but
*Know that to me, you have always been the speck of dust out of the million other that stood out and glisnted gold in the swirling sunlight
While the others merely hovered amidst the air as if they where lost.*
When people expect and expect...and expect of you
Until you feel like a piece of blue-tac that has been used over and over and over again
Until your sweet stickiness is lost
*Know that I would still love you even if to the world you seemed useless.And I would remind you that even tho sometimes I'm not always there to freshen up your day I shall never stop trying to be there 4 you even if I lose my mintyness too...
because a tic never abadndons a tac*
Because you are the girl who I will never be able to truly serve justice by describing you by words.
You are the one who I tried to describe by using the word
Spectacluar...
& even after I broke it down...
Even then...
Just like a beautiful forever unknown
There's always an end part that I can never fully know..about you
But I guess that's what makes you a beautiful mystery.
The fact you're like a precious golden 'speck'
And a 'tac' that never stops breaking off pieces of yourself to help others even if it means you have less
But...
'Ular' you are something 'ular' too...
I don't know what or what the 'ular' of you is...
But I'm sure whatever 'it' is...it adds up to make you...
Spectacularly...you
May 15, 2014
May 15, 2014 at 5:58 AM UTC
You hastily slid my pink thong past my ankles
half an hour ago,
but only now,
when I can feel a stickiness
drip down the insides of my thighs,
am I finally naked.
It dawns on me that I want to tell you something–
something important–
I want to tell you
"I love you,"
before I can pause to wonder if I mean it–
but leftover ***
dribbles out of me
faster than any words can, and suddenly
I am empty again
and have nothing
to say.
Mar 10, 2012
Mar 10, 2012 at 12:46 AM UTC
Do
you ever notice how
the patterns on
the ceiling looks
and ever focus so long
the patterns
start to make shapes-
You
ever stare out
and watch
yourself from
another
point of view?...
Sometimes
I still do this,
we tend to be
at odds with our
perception of life,
seems what
I'm able to see
isn't pleasant or reality-
looking down
at myself.
They
call this,
an outer body
experience
when your
looking up
watch me
watching you.
Do
you feel the pain
I was feeling,
Do
you see yourself
as if in a movie,
I keep the aftermath
& the many
"before's"
steeped in secrecy,
continuing-
obscuring the facts.
Like
these DCF workers
& Court's,
Supposedly
this "System"
was set up to
rescue us
children from
terrible situations
in our
families lives
give them
a chance
at a normal
healthy life.
As
I lay here floating
above myself,
I can see
from up here
what I'm feeling
& he's more
horrific than
the one's
they sent me
to before.
Can
you imagine
the daily living
nightmare
of being
a child assuming &
thinking you
are saved
once placed
within a new home.
Only
to find the situation
worse,
I was torn from
my loving yet very
dysfunctional family,
my siblings,
not so politically correct
but SAFETY was in
our numbers.
We
were strong even
brave as we're
placed with monsters.
monsters
in my closet,
in my room,
under my bed,
in my shower,
monsters
hiding behind the
bedroom door...
He's
coming,
his footsteps-
heard on the stairs
he'll know
I'm recently
fresh out the shower,
I can smell his stickiness-
he's yet to do anything
tonight.
The monsters,
hiding in plain sight,
in daylight-
always, always at midnight
watching me,
watching, always watching
watching me eat,
watching me sleep,
touching me in my sleep,
this monster....
*Do
you ever notice
how the patterns
on the ceiling looks
and ever focus so long
the patterns start to
make
shapes*
Always Me Ayeshah ®
Copyright 1977 - Present ©
K.A.C.L.N ©
All right reserved ®
Jan 25, 2014
Jan 25, 2014 at 3:43 AM UTC
She rises from bed and stares
out the window. Another day.
No new horizons. Why do
people talk such crap, she muses,
senses the hangover bite in.
He said it was just a *** thing,
no strings, see what a new
tomorrow brings. Her mother
had this thing about what the
neighbours said, how things
looked from another’s perspective.
There is a damp patch where
her hand has touched, blood,
bright red. She sees him or rather
his outline in the dark of the night
before. All ten minutes of excitement,
a two-bit joy. Her hand runs over
the patch, feels the stickiness.
Depression digs in its feet, plunges
in its dark claws, rips through her
sense of being, sees the outside
city, no real care, no pity, just what
is she seeing? Shadows and outlines,
people, cars, streets, sun, clouds,
business out there. She wants her
mother back, the loss of all those
years ago, lingering in the back of
her mind and center of her heart.
Depression and the black dog tear
All things and love and life apart.
Nov 7, 2012
Nov 7, 2012 at 8:04 AM UTC
there was a Butterfly on a velvet lavender Peony —
its petals prickled in the crisp breath of spring, sighing
just softly enough to lift Butterfly's wings,
with the ambitious hope that she would see many other gardens
and love Peony's velvet lavender petals just the same.
Peony's hope spun silky and shimmering like a spider's web;
a picture realized somewhere between imagination and wishful thinking.
how brazenly did Peony venture to forget the stickiness of those alluring threads;
a spark of amnesia that flickered too close to the cords of fate.
Peony bloomed and wilted on that hallowed ground,
while passing time pierced Peony's burgeoning faith
no summer nor winter
nor spring nor fall
would ever find Butterfly there again.
Sep 8, 2019
Sep 8, 2019 at 7:39 PM UTC
I like coffee after morning ***
After the unconscious caresses, the fleeting whimpers and moans, the stickiness that lingers between my thighs, the muddle of tangles that nests in my hair,
coffee always tastes the best.
Jul 20, 2013
Jul 20, 2013 at 7:16 PM UTC
I went for that walk past midnight
took the shortcut through the cemetery
on the way back.
As I passed the orange blossoms
my steps slowed
to a halt
imagine as if a passerby
an emaciated soul stopping of thirst at a river's side.
I drowned in the sweet stickiness of
summer citrus
lit so fragrant in dims of dawn.
Darkness in blossoms overcome
a headstone shines
like new pennies
in full sun.
I went for that walk past midnight
you will be happy to know, I took a shortcut on the way back.
Apr 25, 2016
Apr 25, 2016 at 7:38 PM UTC
Speak to me in your honey suckle voice,
Eyes bright like blue lavender laid out to dry;
I want to be drenched in the stickiness of love.
Sticky like a fly trapped in a spider’s web
But unwilling to try to escape.
Croon to me in your apple cider voice,
Lips puckering at the tartness;
I want to be warmed up in the heat of love.
Hot like an egg frying on the pavement
Ready to be eaten with salt and pepper.
Aug 9, 2016
Aug 9, 2016 at 4:12 PM UTC
The stickiness of the gel
That never leaves your fingers
The smell that forever lingers
The distaste that stays at
the back of your mouth.
It could be annoying to have
But inevitable to give.
Jan 4, 2019
Jan 4, 2019 at 1:31 PM UTC
There's a swelter, a stickiness to life as of late.
Syrupy.
Its as if I've been coated in a thin layer of substance.
Sweat maybe.
Salty and inescapable.
I wake up drenched in it.
The smell of ripeness.
The clinging of clothing.
The desperate need to disrobe and cleanse
Only to be swallowed up again by this heat,
This permeating throbbing heat that surrounds me.
That sticks to every surface.
That claims to be more me than I am.
I'm shocking myself in ice cold water
Scrubbing it off of me,
But in a few moments past now it will return.
Thick and imposing...
So I wait for nightfall when it gets colder and I can rest again.
Oct 13, 2010
Oct 13, 2010 at 1:52 PM UTC